Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. Even now she was dazed. And you think I would marry you?’ ‘Why not? I am unworthy, eh? Because I am a servant. Dreams of adorable infants danced through her head as she cradled blankets in her arms. \"You look nice, Lucy. 13 Montague Street. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin.
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